


Nonsense and Verse

by BiteMeTechie (The_Injustice_Trinity)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman: The Long Halloween
Genre: Alice in Wonderland References, Canon Compliant Characterization, Comfort No Hurt, Fluff, M/M, Nursery Rhymes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:58:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1555976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Injustice_Trinity/pseuds/BiteMeTechie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jervis Tetch offers tea, conversation and comfort to all his guests...whether they want it or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nonsense and Verse

**Author's Note:**

> _This story was written for the Free For All Fic For All--or FFAFFA for short--over on the Ask the Squishykins tumblr, wherein Twinings and I offer ourselves up to fill as many fic prompts as humanly possible with stories ranging in length from 100 to 16,000 words. The current round has been extended until May 7th, 2014, so if you'd like a fic written to your custom specifications, please don't hesitate to drop by and ask for it! :)_
> 
> _Prompt: Something Jervis Tetch/Jonathan Crane_
> 
> _Notes: This story is firmly set in The Long Halloween continuity. I did so because I’ve long wondered if I could write Scarecrow/Hatter using the constraints of their characterizations in that story, namely that Crane speaks in nursery rhymes and Tetch in Lewis Carroll quotes, as a springboard for interaction. It’s also always bothered me a bit that the pairing obviously got its start in TLH yet I never see those quirks used by anyone in fandom when writing their relationship/friendship._
> 
> _It makes sense, of course; it was quite bothersome to construct dialogue that vaguely makes sense using only out of context quotations and nursery rhymes, so I totally get why everyone else shuffles that bit off to the side and ignores it. Still, I had fun with the challenge I set myself. I’m not sure I’m totally satisfied with the result, so it may get a teeny rewrite in the future, but with the stack of things I need to finish in the next week, revision is not my highest priority at the moment. Please enjoy._

Lightning cuts a jagged slash across the black night sky. The light it throws leaks through the shattered skylight of an abandoned house, drawing the attention of its sole inhabitant. A crack of thunder above startles the Mad Hatter so much the imaginary teacup in his hand slips from his grasp and makes an imaginary crash on the floor. He lets out a noise of alarmed displeasure and drops the hankie from his jacket pocket next to his feet to sop up the splash of tea that isn’t there. He rubs it back and forth a few times until he’s satisfied. When he’s through clearing up the mess only he can see, he gives a nod and a toothy grin.  
  
“I want a clean cup.” Humming to himself, he sets about making himself another cup of tea with nothing but the air. “Now, I’ll manage better this time.”  
  
There comes a knock at the door, the sound close to drowned out by the storm. The Hatter gives a little sigh. “There’s no sort of use in knocking,” he calls out to the door, sipping at his tea. The door answers with knocking that becomes pounding. Thoughtful, he gives a little shrug and concedes, “There _might_ be some sense in your knocking.”  
  
Without haste, he leaves his chair and ambles to the door. With his free hand, he tugs open the latch and throws it wide.  
  
Framed by the entryway, a bone-thin tower of a man in billowing sack cloth is lit from behind by another flash of lightning.   
  
“Dear, dear!” The Hatter says in surprise, blinking at the wet supervillain on his doorstep. “How queer everything is to-day! And yesterday things went on just as usual.” He holds his hand out into the darkness to feel the air. “Do you think it’s going to rain?”  
  
The Scarecrow grumbles in a voice roughened by what sounds like a nasty cold. “As the days grow longer, the storms grow stronger. “  
  
With his pinky up in a gesture ever so genteel, the Hatter kindly offers the Scarecrow the cup he can’t possibly see. “Weak tea with cream in it?”  
  
Between gaps in burlap the Scarecrow’s eyes become wary slits. “Molly, my sister, and I fell out, and what do you think it was all about? She loved coffee and I loved tea, and that was the reason we couldn’t agree. “  
  
“Tis a privilege high to have dinner and tea,” says the Hatter with a wave of his hand, “along with the Red Queen, the White Queen, and me.”  
  
“If all the world were apple pie, and all the sea were ink,” spindly fingers move in impatient, jerking motions and reach for that which is offered but not actually there, “and all the trees were bread and cheese, what should we have for drink?”  
  
The Hatter waits for his guest to take a sip from his cup, says, “Thirst quenched, I hope?” then he steps aside and sweeps his arms out grandly to invite the Scarecrow into his lair. “Come, we shall have some fun now.”  
  
“Cross patch, draw the latch, sit by the fire and spin,” the Scarecrow slinks past, a twitchy mass of awkward, over-long limbs. “take a cup and drink it up, then call your neighbors in.”  
  
Hatter’s waterlogged visitor collapses in a threadbare armchair. His boots come off and land on the floor with soggy thumps. His dripping mask flops right after them.  
  
“It wasn’t very civil of you to sit down without being invited,” Hatter says pleasantly, picking up the boots and walking them over to the fireplace where they can dry out faster. The fact there is no fire in the hearth fails to trouble him.   
  
The Scarecrow makes a scratchy noise down in his throat and wriggles his toes, the largest on the left foot poking through a hole in his sock.  
  
“’Don’t grunt,” says the Hatter, wagging a reproachful finger as he slides into the other armchair opposite the one the Scarecrow is soaking into, “that’s not at all a proper way of expressing yourself.”  
  
The Scarecrow gives him a weary look. “There was an old woman, and what do you think? She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink; victuals and drink were the chief of her diet, yet the plaguey old woman would never be quiet.”  
  
“I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about.” The Hatter brushes a speck of lint from his coat, handily ignoring the inference that he’s too chatty for the Scarecrow’s liking. “Now you’ve got your breath, you may tell us what’s happened in the town. “  
  
“A wise old owl sat in an oak, the more he heard, the less he spoke; the less he spoke, the more he heard; Why aren’t we all like that wise old bird?”  
  
“’Hold your tongue!’ said the Queen, turning purple,” the Hatter said shrilly. “’I won’t!’ said Alice.”   
  
Bleary, bloodshot eyes survey his face; despair slips into their depths at seeing the Hatter’s determination to converse.   
  
“Come, let’s hear some of _your_ adventures.”  
  
A defeated sigh is his response. Then, a tired rubbing of eyes. “For every evil under the sun there is a remedy or there is none. If there be one, seek till you find it; if there be none, never mind it.”  
  
“Twinkle, twinkle, little bat?” The Hatter gives his guest a knowing wink and taps the side of his nose.  
  
The Scarecrow considers this a moment with a scowl, his eyes cloudy with thought. The burlap of his gloves scratches against the stubble on his jaw as he strokes his chin. “There was a man and he had naught, and robbers came to rob him; He crept up to the chimney pot, and then they thought they had him. But he got down on t’other side, and then they could not find him; he ran fourteen miles in fifteen days, and never looked behind him.”  
  
“How dreadfully savage,” the Hatter says with a gasp. “That _was_ a narrow escape “  
  
His guest’s eyes slip closed, evidence of his exhaustion, and nods wearily.   
  
“I hope you’re not much tired?”  
  
“Cocks crow in the morn to tell us to rise, and he who lies late will never be wise; for early to bed and early to rise, is the way to be healthy and wealthy and wise.” The Scarecrow yawns and opens his eyes again to stare at his face forlornly.  
  
“What _is_ the matter?” The Hatter asks with a curious tilt of his head.   
  
“See-saw, Margery Daw, sold her bed and lay upon straw.”   
  
“Oh dear.” The Hatter’s face crumples in a frown. Of course he has nowhere to sleep. He gets to his feet and shuffles off to find a blanket and a pillow. Neither are in good shape, tattered remnants of an army surplus store a few blocks from the hideout, but they’re better than nothing. He returns, stuffs the pillow behind the Scarecrow’s heavy head and throws the blanket over his body. “Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.”  
  
The Scarecrow seems mistrustful of the blanket. He turns suspicious eyes on the Hatter. “As I walked by myself, and talked to myself, myself said unto me: “Look to thyself, take care of thyself, for nobody cares for thee. I answered myself, and said to myself in the selfsame repartee: ‘Look to thyself, or not look to thyself, the selfsame thing will be.’”  
  
“If you’ll believe in me,” the Hatter says, tucking the blanket around the slight build of the other man, “I’ll believe in you. Is that a bargain?”  
  
The Scarecrow settles into the imperfect armchair, trying to avoid the poky bits. He yawns again, eyes drifting shut. “Deedle…deedle…dumpling, my son John…”  
  
And in spite of the unnatural shape the chair bends his spine into, he’s asleep.  
  
“Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse,” the Hatter whispers as he creeps away to his own bed, “’only, as it’s asleep, I suppose it doesn’t mind.’”


End file.
